And through it all, day after day, I had to endure the mockery of seeing the sunshine, the flowers, the gaiety of early summer: that most beautiful of all the phases of the year. It was the time of the London season and every mail brought us a number of invitations to the most brilliant balls, concerts and receptions. My English friends had been anxious to fête me, and to my other distresses this was now added—that I was obliged to disappoint them. I would see no one. I would go nowhere. I had shut myself up like a nun in her cell.
All my life I have been happy only in giving. Just as I give of my art, so also I give of myself. To go into society, to grimace and to speak politenesses where no genuine current of sympathy is flowing, this is as impossible to me as to sing badly. If, upon the concert platform, I will not offer the cold shell of my voice to the public, so, in the drawing-room, I will not offer the cold shell of my heart to my friends….
London is beautiful in summer, especially, I think, at night. Above the brilliantly-lighted streets there is a sky of a peculiar vivid green which I have not seen in any other city. Sometimes, after a day spent in pacing my little room at the hotel, I would wrap my cloak about me and rush out to mingle with the crowds that move slowly about on the pavements beneath that strange green sky. I drew a sense of comfort from the simple kindness of these people as they made way for me to pass. I felt that they some way shared the trouble of this strange woman, this tall ghost in her white cloak. Their looks followed me, a little awe-struck, as though they had beheld a vision flitting past them. I enjoyed a greater communion of sympathy, here in the streets, than I would have felt among the distinguished and titled people who had begged me to visit them.
I would ride long distances on the street cars, out into the suburban quarters of the town, always with that strange green sky above me, and always saying to myself:
“If I go far enough there will be no more houses, and no more people. I shall come to a place of silence and peace….”
My friend Emmi Waldstein was singing at Covent Garden. Once, having wandered into the vicinity of the Opera House, I determined to pay her a visit. It was the impulse of a moment and yet, as so often, that moment was a turning point in my life. For it was Emmi who suggested that I should go into the country: it was she who made me understand what it was that I needed—the space and silence of nature.
It so happened that she was singing “Isolde.” I went to her in her dressing-room during the intermission. She rose, almost in tears, to greet me, distressed at my altered appearance.
“But Elissa! What has happened, then? You have become so thin!”
We stood together before the long mirror in her dressing-room, and a strange contrast we made! Emmi had remained as charming as ever, so plump, so debonair, a little too short, as I always think, for the rôle of Isolde, but very graceful in her white robe, smiling back at me from the mirror with that peculiar expression of hers which is at once so infantile and so shrewd, so naïve yet so alert.
I had indeed grown thin; the mystic quality in my beauty had become accentuated by suffering so that I looked, as X said, more like a tragic muse than a woman.
I smiled, a little sadly.
“I think it is I, and not you, Emmi, who should be singing the “Liebestod” to-night.”
But she, as always, was highly practical.
“You will be ruined, my dear, if you continue in this manner. If you are ill you should see a doctor and get well again as quickly as possible.”
“My body is not ill. My soul is ill.”
“I understand perfectly. I have myself said this upon an occasion … Confide in me, my dearest friend. Who has given you the basket?”
It is impossible to become angry with Emmi. I, for one, cannot do it. Her kindness is so entirely sincere, there is so much naïveté and good humour in her manner, that I am obliged to capitulate, especially when she uses the argot of our girlhood, of the period when we were students together at the Conservatoire. There is something about this great singer, something genuine and simple, which has survived all the onslaughts of fame and of public achievement. At heart, she is still a young girl. She has had many lovers, but to her they have all been just a little ridiculous. She transports me back to those days when we hid laughing behind the curtain while certain of our admirers in the street below paced slowly up and down on the sentimental Fenster Promenade.
“Unfortunately, no one has given me the basket. It is more than eighteen months since I have loved anyone at all.”
“My God! Is that possible?”
“It is quite true. It seems that I have lost the power to respond to such feelings.”
“But, my dear, this is terrible! For you it is most unnatural. I do not wonder that you are ennervée. I implore you to take a lover immediately.”
“Pardon me, Emmi, but I cannot arrange matters quite as easily as that. If I have no lover it is because there is nobody, but I say it, nobody, who can succeed in attracting me. I know it is unnatural, but I cannot help it. I cannot go to a store and purchase a lover as I would purchase a pair of gloves.”
“Naturally. One cannot concoct a grande passion to order. But one can amuse oneself.”
“I cannot. I have never been able to amuse myself, as you say. For me the passion of love must be all-devouring. It must arouse my most sacred, my deepest feelings. I require to be entirely swept away. I have nothing cynical or frivolous in my nature.”
It was impossible that she should understand me. She had not the tragic temperament. Her life was like her singing—cool, delicious, perfectly poised. Her art was perfect but it was not sublime. There were no supreme moments for her. Her greatest rôles have been those of comedy, in Mozart and in Strauss.
For none of her lovers had she felt very deeply. Each affair had been, for her, a delightful episode, whereas each, for me, had been a tragedy. I had given all and I demanded everything. That is my nature and I cannot alter it, even if I would.
“But there is your career to be considered, mein Kind. I repeat, you cannot continue in this manner. I do not think that you should remain in London if you cannot sing. It is not sensible at all. Believe me, it creates a very bad impression, not only with the public but with more important individuals. There comes an idea that one is passée … a failure. The effect upon contracts in the future is very bad. If one is ill, if one cannot sing, it is much better to disappear until one is well again. Everyone knows that you are in London and they are saying strange things about you.”
“But where do you advise me to go? Is not every place the same? London … Paris … Rome … New York….”
“In a town it would be the same. But you must not remain in a town. You must go into the country. I have spent many weeks myself at a farm in the Black Forest, two years ago. You must do the same. I will give you the address. I can assure you that it was not at all disagreeable. One becomes very fond of the country.”
“Indeed you are mistaken if you suppose that I do not love the country, Emmi. I am never happy anywhere else. The most beautiful period in my life has been spent living quite simply among the peasants in Styria.”
“By yourself, my dear?”
“Ah, no,” I sighed. “Then I was with Rudolf.”
“Precisely. When one is by oneself it is even more peaceful. One goes to bed as soon as it is dark. One sleeps all night. One rises early. One learns to milk the cows …”
She continued her exhortations until it was time for her to return to the stage. I accompanied her to the wings, and as I stood there, listening, a terrible nostalgia for the opera overcame me. This was my world and I was cast out from it! Voiceless, despairing, I breathed the air of home.
Great cliffs of scenery towered above me and, in an island of dazzling light, I could see a little section of the stage … the form of Emmi in her white robe, kneeling over Tristan. And beyond that lay what I could not see, the great, darkened opera house, silent and intent. The pure clear notes of the “Liebestod” floated away into
that unseen world. Why was it not my voice?
A violent rebellion against my lot surged over me. I leant sobbing against the scenery, oblivious of the little crowd of friends who had gathered to welcome me. Drowned in tears I stumbled once more into the street. And of the weeks which followed I can write nothing. They are blackness. They are night. But at some moment the power to save myself returned. I left London. I left my friends. I went alone to Ireland.
Why had I chosen Ireland?
Was it because Isolde was in my mind? Isolde was a princess of Ireland. Or was it because fate had chosen Ireland for me? Unknown to me, the inspiration that I needed was waiting there. It is not chance which governs these things, though at the time it seems so.
My Irish friend, Caroline Nugent, the wife of the British Ambassador in Rome, had once offered to lend me a little cottage that she had built on the banks of a lake, on her estate. The thought of it returned to me.
“It is always ready,” she had said, “always waiting for you. Go there whenever you wish. The key lies on a great beam above the door.”
I recovered. I remembered her words. I set off.
I travelled alone, consumed by the desire to be by myself. And it was well that I did so, for the little house was too small for a party. One large room it had, and over half the space a loft, like a deep musicians’ gallery, to which one ascended by a ladder. Here was to be found a curtained bed. Caroline had built the little cottage for herself as a retreat when she wished to be alone. In the lower room there was a great fire of turf, a dresser with blue plates, many books …
When I had lit the fire I was at home. I clambered up the ladder to my great curtained bed in the loft. I slept as I had not been able to sleep for many months. I could have lain dreaming there for ever, I think, if I had not at last become very hungry. I had eaten nothing for three days except the chocolate which I had brought with me. It was time to go out and purchase some food. Caroline had told me of a village at the end of the lake.
Hastily flinging on a few garments I ran out into the fresh air. A cry of joy and wonder broke from me.
Where had I seen this place before? In my dreams? In some former existence?
I think, only in a dream. It is only in dreams that we see these colours, so soft, so vivid, so unreal—these mountains that we shall never climb, these pale waters…. Or has the world appeared to us like this in our childhood?
I do not know. I can only say that I achieved a moment of rapture, beholding a scene that was familiar and yet strange, remembered and yet new.
That scene—how shall I describe it?
A lake, pale as nacre, yet clear, holding in its bosom the crowded shapes of mountains: a bloom, a haze, an infinite softness: two worlds, a world in the water and a world in the air, and in the centre (ah! it was that which I remembered so well) a little island floating in its own reflection. Again and again my eyes returned to it. I could discern it now, among the trees, grey walls and a tower. I had always known it. A castle that was waiting for me. It had been waiting all my life. It was for this that I had come.
“To-morrow,” I said, “I will take my boat and I will row out to the castle on the island.”
And the next day, as I came out of my house, I said the same thing:
“To-morrow I will go.”
And yet I did not go. It was many days before I attempted to pierce the mystery of the island and the castle. Why did I linger? Perhaps because I knew that I was not, as yet, ready for it.
I was so happy in my little cottage. Every day I recovered strength. My solitude was precious to me. In those days I only spoke to the peasants in the village where I purchased food. A delightful gipsy freedom possessed me. I went barefoot, like a young girl, my long hair hanging in two plaits. My youth flowed back into me, into my body and soul. It shone in my eyes. When I gazed into my little mirror it was no longer the Tragic Muse that gazed back at me; I saw again the face of a young and beautiful woman, still in the springtide of her life.
I tended my fire, I swept my little house, I cooked my simple meals. I lay for long hours beside the lake gazing towards the island … the castle….
“To-morrow I will go….
I knew now that there were dwellers there. I had seen boats gliding over the water. I had seen smoke drifting across the trees. But these people were not strangers. I knew that they also were waiting for me.
As yet I had not sung. The wish to sing had not returned to me and I was content that it should be so. I waited serenely, understanding at last that some beautiful experience was drawing nearer to me. Until there came naturally a day when my solitude was over, and when my little cottage appeared also to be waiting. I became conscious that the chair upon the other side of my hearth was empty. I no longer slept quite contentedly alone in that great bed in the loft. And then I knew, with a mysterious finality, that it was time for me to go to the island.
It was very early morning, and I had spent a restless night, often groaning and crying out in my sleep. A light haze like a thin, imperceptible curtain hovered between the lake and the full light of the sun, and in that silver radiance, upon those milky waters, the island and its trees looked strangely dark and formidable. As my boat drew nearer that dark shape grew taller until at last it had hidden the sun and the friendly hills behind it. I floated into the shadow and rested for a moment on my oars.
I could see a stretch of very green grass, a little lawn stretching gently up to the grey pile of buildings. Something told me that they were all asleep. And then an old woman came out from under the arched doorway. She crossed the green grass and stood beside the lake, looking at me in my boat. A cold shadow, a premonition, fell across my heart. I thought:
“This woman is not my friend. She is guarding the island against me.”
Her white apron, her black dress, her neat grey hair repelled me. Who was she, this old sibyl? A servant … an old nurse, perhaps.
But these old women, how terrible they are! What secrets do they not conceal behind the drab and formal neatness of their appearance? What fierce passions, what a deadly hatred of life, of love, of youth and joy, is raging in their shrivelled bosoms? All my life I have been afraid of old women and their crafty wisdom.
I dared not speak to her. I turned my boat and rowed quickly away from the island.
Ah yes, old woman! You and destiny were too strong for me.
Next day, when the silver light had turned to gold and the lake waters were blue, my courage returned to me. I determined once more to make the attempt. But this time I did not approach the northern shores of the island, where the grass sloped down from the castle door: I rowed stealthily round, exploring the little coves and beaches among the trees. On a stretch of fine white sand I drew in my boat, and climbed ashore. I pushed my way in among the trees. My bare feet pressed delicately upon a sumptuous carpet of moss. Presently I paused to listen.
There were voices, close at hand, ringing out across the water, children’s voices, happy and laughing. And now there was singing. Another voice, a woman’s, had raised an air and soon all were singing, too. I hurried towards the sound. Standing on the crest of a high bank I looked down upon a lovely sight.
Little naked children were bathing on the beach below me. It was their beautiful mother who was singing, as she sat in the sun beside the lake. She sang as the birds sing, with a voice untrained but sweet. I gazed down at her and knew that she was destined to be my friend.
When the song was over I cried out bravo! from my hiding place among the bushes. She looked up in astonishment and I showed myself.
“But who are you?”
“I am a dryad … an undine …”
Afterwards she told me that she had almost believed me. In my ragged green dress, with my little feet bare, I really appeared to be some spirit of the forest or of the lake.
Standing still on my high bank, smiling down at them, I suddenly commenced to sing. I heard my own voice pouring out, with an astonishing power and purity, i
nto the golden air of that summer morning. In a moment it had all come back to me—the strength and the desire to express myself. My body had become once more the vehicle of my art. Without conscious effort I was singing those words which my dumb heart had so often whispered in silence:
Du bist der Lenz
Nach dem ich verlangte
Im frostigen Winter’s Frist ….
To whom was I singing?
As yet I did not know. I only knew that my winter was over and that my voice had returned to me. It had returned in all its perfection. I have never sung better.
I have experienced all the supreme moments in an artist’s life. I have known that tremor of a sacred delirium which flows between the singer and his audience, and I have known that instant of silence, like a great deep sigh, which hangs between the last note and the first sharp crackle of applause, the applause which falls like a single stone, a shower, a vast avalanche into a deep lake of peace which I have created with my art. But I have never—I say it,—I have never sung more perfectly than on this golden summer morning, to this simple audience—a woman and her children, who wept to hear me.
“But you are Elissa Koebel! We have been expecting you.”
Did I not know it! I laughed and sprang down the bank. I wished to laugh and I wished that everyone should laugh as well. A mad exhilaration seized upon us. No child among them was as wild and merry as I. I had found my friends. They had been expecting me. I knew it.
A Long Time Ago Page 2